


Prodigal Son

by Amurtinyburr12



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Gangsters, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, JayDick Summer Exchange, M/M, Past Character Death, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 10:32:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15459417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amurtinyburr12/pseuds/Amurtinyburr12
Summary: Jason is injured, and with his most recent alias and safe house compromised, he goes to ground to lick his wounds. Thing is, he doesn't tell anyone if he’s okay. Batfamily freak-out ensues.





	Prodigal Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GavotteAndGigue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GavotteAndGigue/gifts).



> Haha, so I'd written over half of this story but I forgot that the Archive deletes drafts that are over a month old so I lost it all. But, this version might actually be better than where the plot was originally heading? The world will never know. 
> 
> An alternative title for this fic: All my guilty pleasures. (Is the 420 at the end of the word count intentional? You bet it is.)
> 
> Recommended song to listen to while reading: Home (Machine Gun Kelly, X Ambassadors, Bebe Rhexa)

"Okay but what if he really isn't okay?" Dick frets, anxiously swinging his legs back and forth with worry. He’s perched halfway on top of the marble counter observing Tim's back as he putters around the kitchen. However, it's clear from his knitted eyebrows and constant frown that he isn't focused on the younger boy at all. "You said he isn't using his communicator."

Tim doesn't bother looking back at his brother and instead chooses to continue stirring cream into his steaming coffee cup. Some of the warm liquid sloshes over the edge and, with a yelp, he jerks the mug over the sink before it drips onto Alfred's pristine counters.

"Agh," Tim squints at the steaming puddle that managed to find a home in the sink, then checks the floor to make sure it's still dry. "You know he hates the communicator and giving reports. Especially giving reports to  _me_. I'm sure he's fine so, please, loosen up a little. He'll contact us if he needs to."

The older vigilante heaves a sigh that’s thick with fifty shades of stress. "I know, I know. I just... wish I could have gone with him."

"Hey," Tim answers sympathetically, turning the tap to rinse down his puddle. "I sent him on this op because he's the safest choice. We both know he's the only one who can get that deep undercover and still be able to hold his own. No one would recognize him as a billionaire's dead son and well, if things turn to shit we know he'll defend himself at any cost. Uh,  _please_  don't tell Bruce I said that," he swallows before continuing. "You? You're good Dick, no questions about it, but working closely with dangerous criminals for so long? Someone would be bound to recognize you. They'd need to be blind not to."

Dick looks down at his hands as he clenches them in frustration. "You're right, Timmy, as always. Still, it's not like him to vanish without a word. He was supposed to be back yesterday."

Tim finally turns and shrugs nonchalantly. "We're vigilantes, Dick. Schedules are our greatest enemy - give him at least a few more hours before you go looking. We do  _not_ want to compromise this mission."

* * *

  **THE SAME DAY**

Jason's doing his best to keep a neutral face as he ~~slouches~~  sits at the large circular table but he's not sure he's succeeding. The longer the gargantuan old geezer at the head of the table drawls about money and expenses the closer Jason feels to shutting his eyes and dozing off. To keep himself from a much needed nap, he idly plays with a loose thread on the sleeve of his leather jacket.

The life of a vigilante isn't always badass, unfortunately.

He's currently in a backroom mafia meeting at a sleezy pub between Amusement Mile and Sionis Saw Mill. It's your typical "bad guy" convention with a small dose of B list villains. The meeting itself has taken a long time for Jason to plan and even longer for him to create an alias of someone with the importance to attend. He'd gotten a little assistance from Red Robin in order to access encrypted computer files and extract background information. Jason could've done it himself but he can't deny that the kid is much quicker with a computer than he.

Tim had approached him, in early September, with what he called 'a vigilante's playground' and Jason sort of had to agree when he heard what the objective was. He's been undercover for months as one "Walter Whitman" - the heir to the debt owed from the Black Syndicate to the Osiris Order. Both groups were recently engaged in a calamitous turf war that the police were wary to get involved in. With Jason, or Walter Whitman, at the head of the Osiris Order he's managed to calm everyone down enough to come together for a brief period sans weapons.

This summit’s goal is to settle both the money issue and work out some sort of peace treaty between the egotistical groups and their various allies. The unexpected bit? This particular method, an actual meeting, wasn't originally Jason's idea - a greater, formerly unknown, force was at play. He wasn’t initially aware of who’d anonymously contacted him, a few weeks ago, to orchestrate this entire thing. Not that Jason's complaining - the mysterious caller saved Tim and him a lot of tedious work.

The whole deal was  _supposed_ to go down yesterday, however the unknown contact had requested it be delayed until they returned from a conference in Europe so they'd be able to personally attend. They wrote to Jason in their correspondence that “this deal was too big to allow any mistakes” and confirmed they'd be  _physically appearing_ at the congregation. Since the announcement of the delay, Jason’s been scrambling to contact everyone involved and making sure everything is still on track. The past 24 hours have been such a complicated blur that he hasn’t gotten a moment to catch his breath.

The message is no small feat since it came to light about a week ago that his contact was none other than the fat balding man, Malvolio Black. The man speaking at the head of the table is the current ruling King Pin and lead mobster of organized crime. Upon first appearance, the morbidly obese man hardly seems imposing but Jason knows that he must be either very intelligent or extremely lucky to be able to pull a gathering of this magnitude together. A few well placed bribes and informants on the streets reported to him that because Malvolio operates under several different names and keeps to the shadows, he's the biggest arms dealer in Gotham. He wields an entire network of underlings who carry out his plans for him.

The man’s presence in the past was always represented by one of the underlings or through a two way video chat. Him actually entering a meeting in person is a once in a lifetime chance that Jason had to seize.

"Okay, you need to be there." He remembers Tim had told him over the phone, voice cracking a little with excitement. "Black's persistently been a complete shadow - this is our chance to capture him and take him in!"

Jason agreed with the kid, but for slightly different reasons. Malvolio and his men are snakes. The Red Hood has let far too many of his followers slip through his fingers much too often. Malvolio himself has been to Blackgate a few times but his influence over his people ensures that each visit is brief. He’d consistently return to running his empire within a matter of months and fade away into the shadows again.

A guy like that doesn't deserve any more chances.

It's been hours since the meeting began and the negotiations have already gone down without a hitch. The Black Syndicate and Osiris Order are to be joining forces against greater threats. Greater threats include the Dark Knight and his various partners. (Jason doesn't feel as bad as he probably should for talking shit about Batman.)

Everything was running according to schedule. Of course, life just loved to take every opportunity to spit on Jason's carefully crafted schedules. They started at around 7:30 pm and a glance towards the clock, hanging on the wall, says it’s been 3 arduous hours. He’d expected to be out somewhere between 8:30 and 9.

Jason sighs into his nonalcoholic drink as he swirls the liquid around in his cup, regarding the motion with half-lidded eyes. His reflection in the glass is distant and a little distorted, but he can still see the shock of red hair perched on his head. Sometimes, he forgets his natural hair color is ginger because it’s become a normal paradigm to dye it black every month. It’s not a hardcore disguise like the rest of the Bats would subject themselves to, but changing hair color on a man that doesn’t technically exist is something Jason can get away with. No one can trace a record for Jason Todd if Brucie Wayne's ward died years ago.

Flicking his gaze up to Malvolio Black, Jason idly watches the graying man’s lips move but his thoughts are elsewhere.

He isn't sure why they're going over time but he's none too pleased for two reasons.

One, the most important, is that yesterday was the day he was supposed to be free of this exhausting mission. But, with the summit pushed back so was his long anticipated reunion. This operation has been exciting on some days and shitty on others, sure, but it's also been _months_ since he's gotten to see his Dickie Bird for reasons not related to the case. God, it's definitely a sin how much he misses him. (He would vehemently deny ever thinking that if Dick brought it up but he’s certain his lover is strongly feeling his absence as well. The other man was always more responsive and  ~~adorably~~   _ridiculously_  dependent on physical affection and therefore less stable without him. Still, Jason won't lie to himself, he's not doing great either because dammit he has  _needs_.)

Secondly, this holdup is accomplishing jackshit. This uncharted and unscheduled territory is sickeningly ripe with formalities and kissing ass - both things that Jason doesn't do well with. (Unless it's Dick's ass.)

Something in the air is leaving Jason tense, like some unseen threat is lingering over their heads. There's only one thing left on his to do list before he can return home - visit Malvolio Black tonight and assassinate him. It's a simple plan honestly, frame a member of the summit - probably Ace Jackson since the man stole his seat earlier and has been driving him insane these past few months - and let chaos descend upon the criminal underworld. Without a peace treaty and with their King Pin dead, the threat of unity among criminals will be eliminated for at least a solid year or two. Obviously, a war between Malvolio’s empire and the Black Syndicate will begin but in the chaos that erupts without a steadfast leader, the vigilantes and the GCPD will be able to round up the majority of the confused and angry lackeys.

Except there's one issue and, usually, in Jason's line of work, one issue multiplies into several. He's always had good intuition when profiling people, a gift he's retained since a young age. Hell, he wouldn't have made it this far into his shitty life without it. Very few times in his life have his instincts let him down.

(Granted, a certain incident with a warehouse and an explosion is a good reminder of a time when he was very very wrong.)

The problem is the way Malvolio speaks. It makes the young vigilante's skin crawl but he can't quite pinpoint the reason.

The elderly man is still rambling, voice rough and scratchy as if he's smoked a million too many cigars. His black suit clings too tightly to his pudgy sweaty body. He still seems generally non threatening so it seems likely that most of his success can be credited to the disappointing first impression he makes. However, the way he sits straight backed and positioned in the middle of his chair practically exudes power and confidence. More unsettling, his beady black eyes glint with greed and...something else a tad darker. Something sadistic that Jason's only seen one time before: in the eyes of the Joker. It's obvious that in spite of the man's physical demeanor, his intellect is not something to be underestimated.

Around the rest of the table, slouched in leather seats and sipping at glasses of whiskey are other wealthy bastards that profit off the crime in Gotham. Low-lives like the aforementioned asshole Ace Jackson, Alberto Falcone and Roman Sionis. Behind them are the hired muscle, each a protector of their own man. As a gesture of goodwill, Malvolio's two security guards were left outside the door. Jason's elected not to bring one - a move most would find either naive or arrogant. Perhaps it's closer to the second than Jason cares to admit but he's confident he can hold his own if things go south.

Ace is also missing a hired goon and Jason is still a little confused as to why the other man would place himself in such a position. _It's not the same as me,_ Jason coldly observes the man across from him.  _My reasons are valid. He has to have some other ace, pun intended, up his sleeve._

"...and that will take care of the east dock." Malvolio drawls, dragging a cigar to his lips and inhaling deeply. His free hand is resting on the table, clutching a smartphone that he's been checking every few minutes. Jason finds it remarkably unreasonable that he gets an electronic device when the rest of them were not permitted anything. Even his innocent appearing earpiece was confiscated at the door by a security guard.

 _("I_ _t's just for phone calls," he'd assured the guard without any luck_.) There had gone his connection with the Replacement seeing as his helmets, while usually having a built in communicator, were currently out of commission.  _("_ _I’m upgrading them,” Tim had explained. “You’ll get police signals from here to_ _Blüdhaven_ _, an open link to the rest of us Bats, a direct line to the Commissioner and a visual, face to face, connection with Oracle. It’ll just take me a few days to set it up, I promise.”)_

Alberto Falcone is the first to speak as he sits up in his seat and adjusts the wire framed glasses perched on his pointy nose. He’s apparently eager to end this meeting. "Fantastic! Then this adventure comes to a close. I’m certain the Falcones will thank you for your endeavors to bring peace to Gotham's underworld. When this all pays off I am positive my family will give me the respect I deserve.”

Black smiles, though he seems a little distracted. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Falcone."

Next to Falcone, Ace Jackson grins, not unlike a fox. "Yes, now that the Black Syndicate is partnering with the Osiris Order we can focus on the true threat. Let us know when you'll want that favor, Malvolio. It's the least we can do."

 _He calls him Malvolio instead of Black,_ Jason frowns slightly at the exchange.  _That informality insinuates that Ace either has a lack of respect for Black or, worse, is familiar with him enough to be on a first name basis. Interesting._

The heads in the room turn to Jason, each of them watching and waiting on him expectantly. Swallowing down his disgust, he clears his throat and nods curtly at Malvolio. "The Osiris Order also thanks you. This meeting has been most helpful."

A small buzz is audible from Malvolio's smart phone and the man jerks his gaze away from Jason and to his screen.

The slight shift in Malvolio's body language is barely noticeable to an untrained eye but Jason detects it right away. Black leans forward, just by a hairs width, and his right hand slows minutely in its rotation of the cigarette in his hand.

Jason warily stays in his seat despite every instinct shouting at him to run.

Malvolio redirects his stare back to Jason as he calmly sets the phone down on the wooden table. His other hand, half obscured from Jason’s view, is inching into the folds of his suit. "This meeting has been most helpful, indeed."

All right. Now might be a good time to move.

In another heartbeat, Malvolio whips a small silver Glock from his person and directs it at Jason.

It only takes an additional second for Ace, Alberto and Roman to jump to their feet, anger and confusion etched into their faces. The two bodyguards surge forward to stand in front of their assigned men.

"What's going on?" Ace demands, his exclamation overly loud, as his eyes whip furiously back and forth between Jason and Malvolio. "You told us there would be no weapons at this summit!"

"Trust me, Ace," Malvolio replies calmly, getting to his feet as well but keeping the barrel of his gun trained on Jason.  _First name usage again._ "You'll be glad that I brought this along. I had my suspicions after my men told me that Walter had a tracker on him when he entered. We let it go but of course, my security camera captured him slipping it into my drink. A second ago, I recieved absolute proof of his betrayal."

Jason holds out his hands in a placating gesture and decides to try and talk his way out of this before throwing hands. "I don't know what you think I've done Malvolio but it's all wrong. I've only got the Black Syndicate's best interests in mind."

Malvolio plucks his phone up from the table once more before pushing his chair back and taking a half step toward his target. "Is that right? Then, tell me Walter...why did my agent find a Red Hood mask in your last known residence?"

It all falls into place. _The past hour of pointless chatter after the negotiations were finished were a diversion of attention._ It's elucidated that it's all merely been a ploy to stall for time and he's been played. No, not just played, he was the damn fiddle in Malvolio's grand concerto.

The old man continues speaking, "Your security is impressive, we concede. It took us quite a while to get past all your safeguards, though the excessive amount of protection all but confirmed your guilt." Then to capitalize on his point, the man holds up the screen of his device to show Jason's most recent safe house and the wall of weapons near his bed. Naturally, hanging on it's hook is one of his trademark red hoods.

God, Jason now regrets wearing his Red Hood jacket here. It's a common jacket, yeah, but in this circumstance it might as well be the final nail in his coffin.

Under his breath, Alberto mumbles something about "invasion of privacy" and "does Malvolio keep tabs on everyone's whereabouts?"

Jason jumps to his feet, doing his best to sound incredulous. "What the  _fuck_? How dare you accuse me of betraying anyone, Black. We’ve been working together for months- this is  _obviously_  a set up.”

Roman Sionis turns a heat filled glare toward Jason which causes the younger man to swallow thickly. This can't be good. Black Mask has never been his biggest fan.

"Red Hood, hmm?" Black Mask scrutinizingly looks him up and down. "You're right, Malvolio. That's him though he’s younger than I expected. I find it perplexing that I didn't notice before...long time no see, Hood. Except, of course, in my revenge fantasies where I see you on a daily basis."

 _Time to end this charade,_ Jason reflects churlishly.

In the blink of an eye, he vaults over the table with grace only paralleled by Dick. Before anyone else can even react, he slams into Malvolio and knocks the gun clean from his hands with a simple elbow maneuver taught to him by the League of Assassins. The gun thuds to the carpeted floor as Jason grabs Malvolio by the neck and wrestles him down into a crushing choke hold.

"Seems like I've been bamboozled. You're pretty attentive for an old codger," Jason can't help but admit. "Too bad you're going to die. I can't let all of this be in vain."

Malvolio sputters, face steadily getting redder with each second. He doesn't fight back and instead, eerily calm, croaks out, "Kill me, Hood. Start a war with my people - everyone will know it was you. We know what you look like.”

 _You know what a red haired average white male citizen looks like_ , Jason muses, unfazed.

The King Pin continues, tone implying that he’s holding the trump card, “You have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. My agent has seen to it that your little hideout went up in flames."

Jason subconsciously lessens his hold at that comment, unsure if the fat old man is bluffing or not. He doubts it - there's no reason to lie.

Somewhere behind him, Jason can hear the click of a safety being pulled off.

"Let him go, Red Hood." Ace Jackson's snide voice reaches his ears.

 _Stupid!_ Jason knows it's a rookie mistake to turn your back on potential threats. He'd be embarrassed if he hadn't foolishly thought that with how high security this meeting was  _supposed_ to be, no one else could have managed to slip a weapon in. He hadn't even been able to get a damn bulletproof vest past the guards and machines! ( _"_ _There's no need, Mr. Whitman. You'll be very safe. The room is soundproof, equipped with high tech security cameras and heavily guarded."_ )

The only way Ace could have smuggled his in is if the big man allowed it. Jason speculates now that Malvolio had reached out to more than just him at the beginning of all this. He'd always  _known_ Ace was a two faced shithead but knowing and  **knowing**  were two completely different things. (Okay, maybe Jason's also a bit two faced in this situation, as well. Not important.)

Forcing himself to redirect his attention Jason weighs his options. Sure, complying with the man has a better chance of saving his skin in the immediate future, but unacceptably does far too much damage to his reputation.

Instead, he whips around, taking Malvolio with him, so that he's facing the rest of the room. Roman Sionis has made his way to the opposite wall, adjacent to the door, brute of a bodyguard in front of him, as he furiously bellows a garbled string of words. He seems to be demanding both a weapon and a getaway car but it's unclear as to which he wants first. The first seems more in character.

Alberto Falcone is standing near his chair still, hands balled into fists. He appears more annoyed than scared. Though, because he’s one of the few weaponless people, he wisely says nothing so he doesn’t draw any unwanted attention to himself.

Ace is a few steps closer to Jason than the vigilante is comfortable with and in his hands, he grasps his own gun, a black Smith & Wesson that Jason knows has his initials inscribed on the barrel. And, from past experience, Jason recalls that Ace knows how to shoot and unfortunately is pretty damn good at it.

 _Okay, respond to immediate dangers first._ Shoving Malvolio in front of him with a huff, he uses the rounder man to shield himself. The only parts of him that are unavoidably exposed are his head and both his arms which are still applying pressure to his victim's airway. He isn't hurting the old man enough to cause him to pass out since Malvolio unconscious would only mean dead weight in his arms and possible loss of collateral if the others thought he’d been killed.

 _Thank God,_  Jason's already got an exit route in mind as he's been rigorously drilled in preparing for any and all scenarios by a certain Caped Crusader. On the roof, hidden under a few bricks and pipes he's already left himself another Red Hood mask, a gun and a grappling hook.

Contingency paranoia has to be credited to Bruce, he reluctantly relents.

The obstacle now is getting from here to the door that leads to hall of the regular pub. With a weapon still trained on his face, he’s going to need to be extra careful. In addition, in the hallway, Malvolio’s guards will be ready and waiting to strike him down before he can even consider trying to climb the ladder to the roof.

What he wouldn't give for some Bat toys.

"Stop moving," Ace appears to be growing bolder by the second as he inches another step closer to Jason. "I'll shoot you, filthy traitor. We've been working closely the past few months and I studied you. I know you're a complete fuck-up at everything. You're worthless and it's why you won't make it out of here alive,  _Walter_. I've got the best fucking aim in all of Gotham."

Jason actually stifles a short laugh at his ‘fuck-up’ comment. He's engaged Ace during the early gang wars and, of course, his lack of capability had been nothing but a front so people would underestimate him. "The best aim in Gotham?  _Ha._ Do me a favor, Jackson. Drop from your ego all the way down to your IQ."

Ace growls low in his throat, clearly pissed off. "You know me, Hood. You know that I don’t bluff and that I _always_ get what I want. Let him go and I'll only shoot you in the leg.”

“Wait,” Black Mask growls out. “Keep him alive. I want to draw this out as long as possible.”

Jason allows his eyes the quickest glance possible to double check where Malvolio's gun landed in the scuffle. Simultaneously his lips tug upward into a snarky grin that portrays more self-assurance then he feels. "The only thing I know for certain, Ace, is that I always hated you and your stupid initialed gun.” And because he just can’t resist, “By the way, last weeks derailed shipment? Your heroin dealer never showed up because of me. Guess I am a fuck-up who can’t do anything right,  _whoops_.”

Buckling his knees for half a second, Jason quickly snaps Malvolio's neck ( _"no casualties," Bruce's voice echoes through his head_ ) and drops to the floor. At the same time he shoves the old man's dead body forward and straight into Ace. His fingers connect with the cool steel of the Glock as the other gunman stumbles backward.

The young vigilante wastes no time rolling back to a standing position once the weapon is secure. He fires once then he books it like hell for the door.

He's more than halfway across the room before the crack of another bullet releasing reverberates loudly through the air. It's a familiar noise and yet still as terrifying as the first time Jason ever heard one.

A second later, Jason feels something small but powerful _punch_ straight into his back and he's shoved off his feet and forward from the harsh impact. Another second and shooting agony erupts beneath his shoulder blades and throughout his chest. Following that, Jason realizes that it is much harder to breathe normally. An intense pressure seizes his lungs and it almost feels like he's choking.  _Shit,_ he panics, mentally trapped somewhere between alarmed and perturbingly amused as his mouth fills with a salty tang.  _Fuck the security guards and their spiel that bulletproof vests weren't needed._

He should file a letter of complaint. 

The more analytical, Bat-centric part of him swiftly catalogs the injury and its effects.  _Bullet went clean through. Possibly punctured a lung._ Jason grits his teeth and clenches the gun in his hand a bit tighter. He can't worry about it now. He needs to keep moving.

That plan is quickly shot down  _(hah)_ as soon as Alberto snatches the back of his jacket and brings him crashing to the floor. Apparently, Carmine Falcone's son has decided he'll join the fight now, of all times.

Jason's cheek smacks harshly into the carpeted floor and it chafes against his skin so aggressively he's certain he's got rug burn on his face. Twisting on impact, Jason swings out his right arm to deliver a solid uppercut to the Falcone's jaw. It lands true and the other man is knocked backward toward the table. His bodyguard lunges forward to catch him before his head connects with the wood, but is a millisecond too late.

The sound of another gunshot fills Jason's ears, but he ignores it as he drags himself back to his feet and runs for the door.

Along with breathing, moving isn't quite as easy as it was a minute ago. Time is of the essence.

Foggily, Jason remembers that Ace is still firing shots at him. He needs to either take action and retaliate or pray that Satan doesn't want him back in hell this soon.

Jason doesn't risk taking the time to look back, mostly because he’s fucking scared that a bullet is going to rip a hole in his face. He fires a few shots of his own back in the general direction. Or, he thinks it's the right area, but it's difficult to tell through the disorienting blurred shapes that everything is starting to morph into. It's starting to become mildly concerning how extraordinarily shitty he's feeling in such a short amount of time.

 _Keep running._ Hopefully his diversion works and Ace will have to find cover. That might give Jason enough time to flee the scene.

A strangled yell follows one of Jason's attacks and he allows himself a little grin when he realizes one of his bullets have struck Roman Sionis.  _Bastard._

There's no time to entirely appreciate the moment as Jason reaches the doorway. He kicks it wide open and fires off two quick shots into the skulls of the guards. They appear to have just been about to turn the handle themselves - despite Malvolio's orders that they not be disturbed under any circumstance.

From there Jason is able to stagger toward the short corridor and slump next to the ladder that leads to the upstairs storage room.  _Come on_ , he mentally berates himself.  _It’s just a ladder._ His body doesn't seem too pleased with this idea when it feels like he's burning from the inside out. His clammy skin is starting to become unbearably sweaty and feverish.

A bullet that splinters into the wall an inch away from Jason's face successfully jerks him from his murky state. That may be his cue to leave. Three Ace’s appear at the end of the hallway, weapons still in hand and unbridled murderous intention on their faces. Rationally, Jason knows there’s only one Ace and that clearly, he can’t depend on his jeopardized sight anymore.  _Perfect._

Jason fires back three of his own bullets, not sure which the real Ace is, then while ignoring his protesting limbs and the pressing need to close his eyes, he snags the first rung and heaves himself up. Another of Ace’s shots hits the ladder with a dangerously loud  _clang_. Filled with fear fueled adrenaline, Jason drags himself up the ladder in what must be record time.

At the top he pushes open the small square shaped panel that reveals the storage room. He wastes no time clambering onto the upper level and then shooting out the bolts that hold the ladder securely. Ace's footsteps are loud and audible, along with a collection of others that are more distant. Jason slams the panel back down to keep himself out of anyone else's sight then searches the room for something heavy to put over it. Sure enough, there's a dust blanketed extra table shoved into the back corner of the room. He pulls it over then tips it onto its surface so that the legs are sticking straight up.

Once he finishes barricading the entrance, he turns his gaze to the window. The glow of the moonlight streaming through the dirty glass is soft and damn near peaceful. Jason drowsily half-wonders if the physical beauty of such a terrible night is a good sign.

After he clumsily kicks the glass from the window pane, he utters a curse that would have caused Alfred to wash his mouth with soap. He can’t believe he somehow forgot that his stupid escape plan had him scaling the side of the building and up the thirty feet to the rooftop. Normally, that sort of thing would be laughable since all Robins are basically experts in looming skyscrapers and perilous heights.

Staring at the distance now makes Jason think he would actually prefer to be shot again.

A pounding on the wooden panel in the middle of the storage room has Jason swallowing that traitorous thought and launching himself out the window.

Before he's even fully aware of it, he's got eight feet left to ascend but he can't find the energy to close the gap. As an excuse to take a break, Jason glances back at the earth below him. He soon realizes his mistake when dizziness and nausea rise up like bile in his throat. Instantly, his world is plunged into an even more disorienting mess of black tinged vision and blurry shapes.

An enraged roar that’s unmistakably Ace echoes from somewhere below the vigilante. "You can run, Walter! But you can't hide! I'll find you!"

And,  _shit_ , if Ace is near the broken window and looks up...

With a grunt of exertion, Jason draws on his what’s left of his waning strength to haul himself up and over the edge. An awkward combination of crawling and shuffling takes him to his pile of previously stashed supplies.

He reaches for his Red Hood mask before doing a physical scan of himself. And,  _holy shit Batman_.

Once his sight manages to pull itself together, he's a little taken aback by what he sees. That's...that's a lot of blood seeping into his white dress shirt. He really hadn't thought it was this bad. On a scale of Jason Todd’s worst injuries, this might make his top five. Ace might be a fucking hot head but he certainly wasn't lying when he claimed to be a good shot.

The red stain is pooling right above where his heart is, and the frightening odds that his left lung has been punctured is looking unnervingly high. As if on cue, an overwhelming bout of coughs erupts from him and  _God_ , it hurts to pull in even the smallest breath. Small droplets of blood mixed with saliva speckle onto his chest and Jason flinches at the sight.  _Fantastic._

Deliriously, he wonders if he'll even get the chance to care about how badly this mission went. He might not be Tim Drake but he can run the numbers and, well, it's likely that his problems won't matter in a few hours. _Damn._ He genuinely wishes he’d insisted on the communicator upgrade being held off on till after the mission. He could use a helpful ass kicking Nightwing right about now and  _hell_ he’d take Bruce or even the little demon brat.

"Get a grip," he mumbles to himself. Self-pity and pride are both old acquaintances he’s excruciatingly familiar with but none of them will help him right now.

He needs to stanch the bleeding, at least temporarily, until he can get to his safe house.

His safe house.

_Right._

Jason doesn't know what Malvolio would gain by lying about burning his place down so he needs to plan his next steps as if it is true. If it's really been compromised then he won't survive long enough to get somewhere else. His next nearest safe house in Port Adams might as well be a lifetime away. Jason isn’t so incoherent that he'd dare to imagine himself making it that far. Unfortunately, that leaves only one other option.

Grimly, he pulls in another shaky inhale before pushing himself up against the stack of bricks. Blood howls in his ears at the simple movement and he closes his eyes momentarily to recenter himself. Groaning under his breath, Jason tugs his jacket off with some difficulty then promptly frowns down at the gruesome hole in his chest. The blood is sticky and warm on his fingers as he gingerly presses a hand down; testing his limits. The action instantaneously sends another tidal wave of immense pain through him and Jason resolves to touch the injury as little as possible.

Carefully, he unbuttons the white shirt and begins to diligently peel the fabric off of himself before it dries to his skin. With a pang, he suddenly remembers with a pang that this isn't his shirt - Dick let him borrow it. One of the few modest pieces of clothing he owns and Jason's managed to soil it.

He seriously contemplates not using the shirt as a chest seal because  _it can still be washed right?_ , but a split second later he comes to his senses.  _You can buy Dick another shirt, idiot._

All the same, an unfair amount of guilt wells up in him as he rips off a strip of material long enough to wrap around his chest a few times.

_Dick._

What will he say if Jason doesn't come home? A mixture of terror and unease stirs in his stomach and he decides he does  _not_ want to think about that.

It's easier to distance himself with the pain and worries of infection. There’s a high possibility that it will happen if he can’t get something to sterilize the area soon.

When he finishes wrapping himself up, he strains to tug his jacket on again and pull himself upwards. Staying here will guarantee a violent death and he's already been on the receiving end of that once before.

After clipping his preferred gun and newly acquired silver Glock into his belt, Jason shoots out a grappling line towards the nearest safe house -  _Bruce's_ safe house. The place is legally owned by "Matches" Malone, an identity stolen by Bruce, so he could own a penthouse apartment without constant investigation from the press. Jason's been to the apartment only once before, the first time he and Dick got together. (For, uh, personal reasons. Ivy's pollen had nothing to do with it but Jason kind of wishes it did. At least that would explain some of the things that happened that night.)

Bruce hasn't given him his own set of codes to the safe house, perhaps because he doesn't trust him or, less likely, he's working on creating his individual code still. He's a bit wary about showing his face there since relying on the old man's equipment isn't exactly solidifying his independence as a gun-toting, free-thinking vigilante.

But if doesn't want to die... he has nowhere else to go. 

Thank heavens, Dick hadn't cared to cover up his personal code from Jason. (Why would he?) They were both a little distracted getting the door open and disabling the alarms but Jason’s memory is not easily jeapordized. He’ll be able to get in without too much trouble and call the Replacement.

However, it’s now top priority to keep his wits about him once he’s safe with the others. He doesn't want to let it slip in some drug induced state that he'd planned to assassinate Malvolio from the beginning. If it somehow gets out, Bruce might very well drag his ass to Arkham and melt the key.

Okay, he probably wouldn't do that. Probably.

Jason’s purposely made it so that his interaction with Batman and his hordes of adopted children is limited since he’s been on the path back toward the light. His attempted murders of the Replacement and Batman are part of the more distant past, but won’t ever truly be forgotten. And thankfully, the tension between all of them has significantly lowered over the years since his return, perhaps a result of the Lazarus Pit's grip on him becoming weaker. He's teamed up with Dick countless times, usually not planned, on patrols and a few low end missions. Those occasions are a few of Jason's favorite memories and he regrets that he may never get the opportunity to tell the Golden Boy what they meant to him.

Dick's the only one who never given up on him, even during the times when Jason was angry and confused and seeking vengeance. Dick's the only one who never failed to see him as a person with emotions rather than an experiment gone wrong or another vindictive villain.

And, perhaps, Nightwing's the only one he's ever felt truly comfortable with because he knew Jason from  _before_. Dick still remembers the young boy who was unfailingly eager to make his family proud whereas Bruce only sees countless mistakes and wrong turns. He remembers a Jason with a passionate enthusiasm for vigilantism where Bruce saw unchecked rage. But Dick hasn't forgotten the boy who'd fiercely defend those he loved at the drop of a pin. Jason is aware that Bruce and the others think the boy that was capable of loving died five years ago and, truthfully, he wasn’t sure for awhile himself. That is, not until Dick found him and offered his trust despite having no reason to believe Jason still retained any parts of that little kid.

But Dick understands what it feels to be lost in the storm that is Bruce Wayne and can identify with painful loss and rebellion just like Jason. The two of them aren't so different, in the end.

Most importantly, Dick taught Jason, slowly and kindly, that the Robin from years ago _isn't_  lost. He pointed out that Jason still gets that familiar rush of euphoria when he keeps vigil over the city at night. And made him realize that sometimes when he's alone in his safe house and thinking about what to eat he gets cravings for Alfred's warm and perfectly gooey chocolate chip cookies. Worse, he doesn't want to admit that  _yeah_ , he does miss when Bruce would gaze at him with anything that wasn’t disappointment or frustration. The days when he’d watch affectionately after Jason pulled off a particularly difficult move or even when he'd run a gentle hand through his hair as they watched television on the couch. His death along with the combination of the Pit and Tim Drake had basically destroyed any chances of him being anything other than the black sheep in the family.

 _Now is seriously not the time to be thinking about this_ , Jason scowls deeply at the air in front of him.  _You’ve lost it._ With that comforting thought, he leaps off the roof and out into the chilly night air.

Fiery hot pain washes through him in random surges the moment he has to put pressure on his upper body to maintain his grip on the grappling hook. Jason does his best to remain stoic through the torment but isn’t exactly certain why he needs to be. No one can see his facial expression.

Focusing his energy on not passing out is top priority, getting to the apartment is second. As he swings from the clock tower to a skyscraper it hits the vigilante with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration that it's been a  _very_ long time since he's actually been shot, especially this severely. He's habitually been overly cautious when engaging with other gun men and while he isn't as light on his feet as Dickie it's still second nature to leap out of the path of bullets and other potentially fatal objects. That agility along with bulletproof vests and armor padding his usual Red Hood "suit" is equipped with ensures that if someone ever managed to get lucky and hit him, the worst he'd get is a bruise that would throb like a bitch for a week or two.

Distracted and sluggish again, it takes all Jason's willpower not to cry out in agony when a misfired shot slams him shoulder first into the next building. His entire world goes black for a few seconds, or at least Jason prays it was only a few seconds, before he finds the strength to push an arm out and grab onto the ledge a few inches above his head.

_Wow, I've gone fucking soft._

The urge to close his eyes is nearly overwhelming now and Jason's finding it increasingly more difficult to recall exactly why he can't allow himself to do that. Barely holding back a few uncharacteristic whimpers, he blearily sweeps the area, trying to figure out how far from the apartment he is. He's on Park Avenue in Crime Alley- not exactly ideal but better than where he started.

And okay - young tire stealing Jason essentially grew up in Crime Alley. He knows it's alarming that he didn't immediately recognize the area before. Pushing down his insecurities and the urge to cough again, Jason fires another line.  _Keep moving. Don't stop._

It takes less time for him to misfire again and this time he can't keep his hold on the hook when he collides into the building. His fingertips slip from the handle and, shoving down the swell of panic in his chest, Jason flails his arms wildly in attempt to grab onto something -  _anything_.

He drops about a foot or two before his left hand manages to catch a groove between the head and elongated neck of a gargoyle. Relief is quickly replaced by a jolt of extreme agony as his left shoulder is viciously wrenched out of its socket and subsequently an anguished wail is torn from his lips. The guttural scream echoes out across Gotham’s skyline, mixing with the night.

Jason’s not certain if he blacks out or if the ungodly amounts of pain have completely shut down his vision but when the light eventually returns, and the world stops spinning, he swings his right hand up to join his left.

It’s ridiculously difficult to breathe now and Jason’s chest is heaving with the effort. He lets himself dangle over the three hundred foot drop while he concentrates on inhaling as much air as he can into his oxygen depleted lungs.  _In. Out. In. Out. Come on._

When he’s finished he gathers the last scraps of his resolve and swings his weight toward the base of the gargoyle. It takes a few tries for Jason to get his thighs wrapped around it but once he’s secure, he pulls himself up, mostly with his good arm, and around the statue until he’s laying flat on top.

Distantly, he’s aware this is his final stop. Getting to Bruce's penthouse in this state is impossible. The other more stubborn half of him  **can’t**  accept this and is grasping for straws.  _You can find a phone. You can scream for help. You’re a fucking Bat - this shouldn’t be the way you go._

This  _can’t_ be the way he goes.

Gingerly, Jason rolls himself onto his back before dragging his gaze down to his pulsating wound. Warm wetness is seeping into the fabric of the chest seal that’s still, thankfully, tied tightly in place. A nauseating amalgamation of red blood is staining a large portion of the white material.

_Jesus fuck, that’s too much blood._

A familiar ache settles in his chest. It isn’t the pain - the agony itself  _is_ waning incrementally but Jason knows that’s not something to be pleased with. The only explanation for the turn of events is that his body’s ability to register the pain, or anything else for that matter, is beginning to fail.

No, this ache doesn’t belong to pain. It’s the sensation of being alone.

It’s the realization that no one is coming to save him.

It’s the numb understanding that he’s going to die by himself,  _again_.

Two feet above Jason, entrancingly, the line from his grappling hook swings softly in the wind like a pendulum.  _Back and forth. Back and forth._

He reaches up, tantalizingly sluggish, and takes hold of the line so he can pull it toward him.

He has to tilt his head to the side as another round of miserable hacking overtakes him. He can only blink tiredly at the droplets of blood that spatter onto the cracked mortar.

Despite the weight of impending death looming over him, Jason still uses every scrap of his Bat instilled knowledge to prolong it. He wearily shifts onto his side, a precarious balancing act when positioned over a thin gargoyle. A wider ledge is located just few inches ahead of him but his worthless limbs won’t respond to his endeavors to roll onto it.

He’s resting on his injured side in a last ditch attempt to let gravity keep his punctured lung open. As an afterthought, Jason moves his right hand from his side so that it presses firmly on the injury.

With the grappling hook he uses the wire to secure himself to the top of the statue. It takes some work to loop the line with only one hand.

Dying because your lungs are filling with blood is one way to go but falling from a seven story building is another matter.  _Pneumo-hemothorax,_ Jason chuckles quietly and humorlessly before wincing at the vibrations the action causes.  _Blood pressure is dropping. Lung collapsing._

He can’t decide if he’s irritated or thankful that he’s somehow made it this long.

Some of the blood is beginning to crack and dry along the seal but Jason can’t do anything about the uncomfortable itch it’s creating. Instead, he turns his eyes down to the lights of the city below and inhales the cool air through his nose.

Cars are racing through the streets below, going places they don’t actually want to go. Ambulances distantly wail symphonies of horror and hope. There are horrible and beautiful echoes of people shouting, laughing, loving, fighting, giving birth and taking lives. Jason lets his eyes fall closed so he can drink in the familiar heartbeat of Gotham as it pulses across the streets. A nostalgic part of him flashes back to his past, to the kid who used to sleep on cold sidewalks and do this exact same thing. A kid who was also waiting for a miracle. 

When he eventually opens his eyes, an action that takes an insane amount of effort, it’s so he can fixate on the faint glow of the stars above. He idly wonders what it feels like to be at peace and finally rest like a star. He’s never gotten the chance, not even the first time.

It’s getting cold.

He wishes Dick were here. It’s a childish thought but... he wants to hold his hand.

A traitorous tear glides down his cheek, to his neck, and then slips to the streets beneath.

Shadowy circles are closing in on Jason’s vision blurring everything around him as the sounds of the city seem to float away…

* * *

 Awake.

Someone’s shouting above him, far away: _"B_ _ring the Batmobile! Now!”_

They seem scared... Something small and warm touches his neck; possibly a hand feeling for a pulse.

Jason stirs a little, trying to squeeze an eye open but is unsuccessful. When did he fall asleep?

“Jay,” a voice that sounds like one he should recognize echoes softly above him. “Hold on, okay? I’ve got you.”

Jason wants to respond and he tries to answer but his tongue feels dead and useless in his mouth. All that comes out is an unintelligible mumble.

“You’re going to be alright...just stay with me. Don't fall asleep, Little Wing.”

It takes another second for the voice to finally click in Jason’s mind.  _Dick._

He can’t help smiling, albeit groggily, in relief. He gives what he hopes is an affirming nod though he can't quite remember what Dick told him not to do.

And then a wave of black pulls him under again.

* * *

It feels like Jason’s underwater, hovering a few feet from the surface, except his clothes and hair feel completely dry. Blissfully, there is no pain in this space. Only calm.

He can make out fragments from people talking around him, each sounding sick with worry.

_“Infection...”_

_“Alfred, start needle decompression...”_

_“...dislocated...reposition...”_

_“Hold him down, Damian.”_

Splintering white pain floods Jason’s underwater world but the only sign of discomfort he has the energy to display is a twitch in his right knee. It’s pure unadulterated agony, ripping through him with vengeance - a feeling he’s become intimately familiar with in the past hours.

Too much.

Too little time.

This time he  _chooses_ to let go.

* * *

Coming to, for the final time, is considerably harder than letting go. His first inhale feels like a kick to the throat which results in him sputtering and choking.

The sound of shoes scuffing the floor are audible and then someone’s strong arms are pulling him up into a position that’s halfway between lying down and sitting. The coughing subsides after a few seconds, leaving Jason feeling overall miserable.

It feels chilly, like all the cold air is seeping straight into his bones despite that he can feel at least two silk sheets covering his torso.

Through everything, Jason’s eyes still haven’t opened and so he works on trying to lift the heavy lids. It takes him a few attempts. A dim flickering light is positioned above him, attached to a dark overhang of rocks.

He’s in the Bat Cave.

Slumped in the seat by the computer is the Replacement. The kid’s neck is bent at an awkward angle over the armrest and he’s drooling a little out of the corner of his mouth.

Looking down at where he was shot, Jason is immediately drawn to the large chest tube embedded in his skin. There’s no shirt, of course the ruined one must have been cut off and thrown away. His leather jacket is draped over the bed side handles and is is looking a bit rougher than usual.

The tube is connected to a drainage system, no doubt to let air and blood out. It pushes in on him unpleasantly, but he's sure with Alfred's background in medicine he's at the most comfortable he can be with a foreign object in his skin.

To his left, currently supporting him, is a disheveled Nightwing. His domino mask is missing but the rest of the uniform is intact. Dark rings circle his eyes and his black hair is sticking up haphazardly in every direction.

“You...look like shit.” Jason informs him.

“Hey to you too,” Dick returns, ignoring the comment as he lowers Jason back onto the bed with gentle ease. “How are you feeling?”

“Um,” Jason tries then moistens his lips. “Feels like I was hit by a bus but... been worse.”

It sounds more like a question than anything else.

Dick’s face twists into something strange at the admission of pain. Jason's never been too forthcoming about his physical or emotional state. Usually, he remembers to downplay it despite how much hurt he's feeling and diverts serious talk with jokes. Right now, it would seem he doesn't care.

“You scared us, Jay.” He nods at Tim’s sleeping figure in the corner and his eyes get watery. “You disappeared without saying anything. Tim sat with me this entire time waiting to see if you... to see if you would pull through.”

Jason takes in Dick’s expression, having a hard time following the conversation from all the drugs he must be pumped full of. “Mm sorry,” he slurs, hoping it’s enough to make Dick stop looking at him like that.

Concerned isn’t a good look on Dick. Smiling is better.

“A little heads up, Bruce isn’t happy with you,” Dick settles onto the bed so that he’s sitting with his legs hanging half off and his torso twisted toward Jason. “He said you killed Black.”

 _Ha, is he ever happy with me? But also **fuck**. _ That brings a little awareness to Jason but, like the man he is, he doesn’t deny the accusation. “How does he know that?”

“The security footage. Tim and Babs erased all of it but Bruce insisted on watching it first.”

The sound of a door creaking open from upstairs resonates loudly through the cave and Tim startles up from his nap, an almost comical look of alarm lingering on his face.

Bruce, dressed in civilian clothes, pauses at the top of the staircase to factor in that Jason’s  _awake_ before beginning his descent.

“Bruce-,” Dick starts in a placating tone but is interrupted.

“Jason,” his name on his surrogate father’s lips is cold. He nears Jason’s bed but stops a few feet away like he's to good to be in the same space. Without preamble, he asks, “What happened?”

Angry heat spreads from Jason's neck to his cheeks. Right to business. No “ _are you okay’s_ ” or “ _I’m happy you’re alive’s_.” Typical.

Jason is able to admit that he’s emotionally constipated and accepted a long time ago that he might never be able to properly express himself. His method of expression is the Red Hood and enacting vengeance on Gotham's criminals. It's no different than Bruce, floundering from the loss of his parents, taking solace in the Batman.

But the man either doesn't realize the impact his cold bluntness has on Jason or is in denial that what he said was heartless. It's extremely hard to tell what the other man thinks, especially when anytime they interact he's lucky if Bruce grits out more than two sentences.

Jason is aware that the only thing that truly remains consistent between the two of them is that they don't know how to communicate with one another.

And so suddenly it seems very important that he doesn't let Bruce know what a failure he is. Not after there's already been blame placed on him for ruining this operation.

As much as he defies the Bat, he craves any sort of approval. Perhaps it's his hubris, trying to prove himself to a man that he also feels he shouldn't have to prove anything to. Either way, he definitely can't let the other man know how terrified he was when he thought he was going to  _die alone_ again. Panicking during a high stake mission? Failure with a capital F.

Though, it shouldn't be a concern since Jason doesn't think he'd even be able to put into words the stifling loneliness he felt when he believed it was the end. Not to mention he'd been seriously considering attempting to make amends with the family. 

Bruce probably wouldn't care anyway.

It’s easy to make the switch from insecure to furious anger, a familiar role he falls into when in Bruce’s presence.

“You know what happened,” he responds sharply. “The mission went south but I handled it. Sorry I broke your little code but at least now Black won’t be bothering anyone. Ace Jackson won't be stepping up to fill the mantle anytime soon if he knows what's good for him, so this case is as good as closed.”

Jason's tone implies he doesn't feel sorry at all.

“This isn’t a joke,” Bruce growls, taking another step forward. “You’ve again, proven that you can’t follow orders. You’d better give me a good,  _solid_ , reason for not using your communicator. You were reckless and out of line.”

Tim spectates the exchange silently, but his trembling stance and big eyes say it all. He was scared and feels responsible.

Dick stands up so he’s facing Bruce, weariness in his posture. Jason immediately misses the warmth when he leaves his side.

“Now is not the time for this,” Dick rests a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “He just woke up. Give him some time to heal and recuperate.”

"No," Bruce shoves Dick's hand away. "He wasn't thinking!"

“Yeah, now is a perfect time.” Jason grits his teeth and glares at the older man. As Bruce begins his retort, Jason struggles to push himself up onto both elbows.  _Not a good idea._ His world tilts dangerously and blinding white light spikes through his vision. 

"We've talked about this, Jason! You were impulsive and arrogant. You could have -", Bruce cuts himself off and a flash of something that looks suspiciously like worry crosses his features and he has the decency to appear somewhat guilty.

Jason's trembling arms are unable to hold him in place, and with annoyance, he lets himself collapse heavily back onto the pillows.

The tension that suffocated the room just a second ago dissipates, replaced by tired wariness and regret.

There’s a long awkward silence before Jason can’t take it anymore, despite the knot of irritation in his stomach. He carefully eases his expression and mentally untangles the knot before asking:

“Where’s the brat?”

They all know he’s referring to Damian and it’s possible they’re aware he’s only asking to redirect the subject. Jason’s never been overly fond of the young ex-assassin but the relaxant in whatever drug he's on disregards that to try and start this conversation over.

“Little D’s upstairs in the library,” Dick replies, returning to Jason’s side and fiddling a little with the tube in his chest. A bit of the pressure lessens as he corrects something. “Don’t let him him know I said this but...I think he was nervous too. You weren’t looking too great when we brought you into the cave.”

Jason tries to remember anything at all about how he got here but comes up disturbingly blank.

Some of that unease must show on his face because Dick runs a soothing hand through his hair. “You’re a walking miracle, Jay.”

Jason snorts at that and expects to feel discomfort - but no, the painkillers are doing their job. Roy could probably shoot him in the leg right now and he'd only feel a slight pinch. “Lucky, more like it. Didn’t die this time.”

At the mention of death, Bruce’s expression turns tight. Then, wordlessly he turns and stalks away, stiffness in his shoulders.

Jason thinks if this were a cartoon there would have been a cloud hanging over his head.

Dick tracks the older man’s departure, eyebrows knit together with worry again. “He cares, Jason. Bruce and Damian worked tirelessly over the past few days to keep you alive.”

Jason decides to ignore the sentiment because he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Hold on, Dickie.  _Days_?”

“Yeah, sorry. Um, it’s Tuesday. Guess I should have told you earlier.”

“Damn,” Jason frowns slightly at the missing chunks of time. “That’s almost three days.”

Dick hums a little under his breath before his expression turns sympathetic. “Bruce will come around...this is his way of checking up on you. I know you don’t think so but you’re important to him. To all of us.”

Jason nods, too tired to fully argue with Dick about how complicated their relationship is. He’s been awake less than five minutes and yet he’s already beginning to feel impossibly tired. He musters enough strength for the second best alternative: sardonic spite. “Sure, sure. He’ll tuck me into bed after he comes to terms with the fact that I killed someone and allowed members of Black’s mafia to break into my apartment. I’m not a complete failure to him at all.”

Tim moves awkwardly from his station by the computer until he’s standing at the end of Jason’s bed, arms positioned in such a way that he's hugging himself. “Despite what Bruce says...for what happened I think you handled the mission better than anyone else could have.”

Jason looks down at the foreign device in his chest, wondering if Tim would be the one lying in this bed right now if he'd gone. While there's already resentment forming towards how long until he can patrol again, it's strange to realize that he doesn't wish any of the others had been the one to go. He's not glad it was him that was shot but...he's relieved it wasn't anyone else either. “Kind words from the Replacement.”

“I mean it,” Tim inclines his head to the chest tube. “And, I'm sorry but a traumatic pneumothorax requires _at least_  6 weeks of recovery and even longer if you do something to aggravate your wound which, you're bound to do. Even after that, you shouldn't have cigars or do anything that's too strenuous.”

Dick winces in sympathy for Jason but leans over and pokes Jason's nose in a playful manner. “That means bed rest and healing.” If it was anyone else, Jason might have grabbed their finger and broken it.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Jason mutters eloquently. At the mention of a cigarette, his fingers twitch toward his pocket.

Dick notices, or maybe he doesn’t, but he takes his earlier position on Jason’s bed and intertwines their fingers. Jason has to admit that maybe Dick isn’t the only one more than a little starved for touch. (He has half a mind to ask Tim if bed time activities count as heavy exertion but fears he already knows the answer. He's sure he'll be able to convince Dick that it doesn't count, given a little time.)

His lover’s added weight dips the mattress slightly to the right but he’s grateful for the company. He’s about to ask if they can turn up the heat, planning to phrase it like he doesn't care if they do or not, when Dick speaks again.

“What happened out there? Why weren’t you answering your communicator? You scared the shit out of us, Jay.”

 _That’s a story and a half_ , Jason ruminates.

“The reduced version?” His gaze moves to Tim and he has to swallow down a sickening ball of guilt. “I don’t do well with orders and I wasn't exactly keen on following any from the Replacement. I...I let that bitterness get the better of me and didn’t use the earpiece as often as I should have. Then when the summit was delayed I was in charge of making sure it was on track and completely forgot to check. And then, of course, it was strictly no tech and, well, that’s pretty much where everything got blown to hell.”

It’s not exactly an apology but it’s the closest he’ll ever get to one.

Tim regards him, a storm of emotion flickering in his eyes. “Jason, I’m sorry this even happened. I never should have decommissioned your helmet communicator at such a crucial time. So, if anyone’s to blame...it’s me. I was wrong not to send back up and I was wrong for telling Dick to wait when he wanted to look for you.” He pauses, and a shudder runs through his skinny body. “If we’d found you any later then we did…”

Something inside Jason takes pity on the kid.

“Stop,” he hears himself saying. “It’s not your fault, Tim. You’ve been fucking brilliant the whole time. I was the one being stupid, alright? Let’s leave it at that.”

Tim seems surprised before he quickly mumbles some sort of half-assed excuse about “compiling reports” and “cleaning up.” Before anyone can say ‘ _what a surprisingly tender moment_ ’ Tim’s fled up the staircase and let the door fall closed behind him. His hands were swiping at his eyes and Jason has the absurd notion that he might have been trying to push back tears.

That's ridiculous. 

Still, Jason blinks at the hasty exit and wonders what he said to make Tim leave in such a strange fashion. The mind numbing fog of sleep is returning full force, however, and it’s getting harder to stay alert much less concentrate on the younger Robin's mental state.

“That wasn’t like you,” Dick murmurs, a small smile gracing his lips as he runs his other hand through Jason’s hair.

“Mm, you’re saying I’m not allowed to be nice?”

“No...I’m saying I’ve never heard you call him anything except Replacement before.”

Jason's mind races, attempting to come up with an instance where he’s called,  ~~the Replacement,~~  Tim by his actual name and, frustratingly, he realizes he can't.

“Don’t worry,” Dick laughs, light and breezy like everything else he does. “You being nice to Timmy...it makes me love you even more.”

The feeling of Dick’s fingers carting through his hair is calming as hell. It’s like a physical lullaby and after the rough pace that's been the past few months...it’s a welcome change.

“Ha,” Jason snorts, eyes already slipping closed. “You’re only saying that because my hair is red.”

“I always did have a thing for gingers.” Dick muses, head tilting to one side as if deep in thought.

“No shit,” Jason agrees.

Before he fades into unconsciousness again, Dick presses a soft kiss to his forehead and murmurs: “By the way, you owe me another shirt, J-Bird.”

* * *

_You confronted your sorrow_

_Like there was no tomorrow_

His thoughts are clearer this time.

The first thing Jason’s aware of is someone sitting near him. Not on the bed but close, probably in a chair. He can sense them, although they’re almost completely motionless.

The second is that he’s considerably warmer. An extra, fuzzier, blanket’s been added to his previously pitiful selection of sheets.

And the third is the distant underlying static of a radio, quietly playing some melancholy song that as Jason listens to the lyrics, feels like he can almost identify with.

_A delightful disaster_

_You jumped farther and faster_

_You were always so full of surprises_

Once he peels his eyes open, a task getting a little easier with time, it’s to Bruce, clad in a black turtleneck sweater. He’s sitting in one of the thin metal chairs found randomly around the cave, back to Jason’s bed but at an angle that also allows him to easily turn his neck. One knee is bent at ninety degrees and draped over his other knee which forms a triangle in the space between. Something about his familiar presence and how he’d decided to watch over him is comfortable. The parody of a night out when he was younger, which often would land him on this exact bed, twists into Jason like a sharp knife.

Staring death in the face (again) can really alter your perspective on certain ideals. Yesterday, Jason would have laughed at the insane thought of coming within one hundred feet within Wayne Manor’s perimeters and yet here he is, splayed out in the Bat Cave under the family’s ever-watching eyes.

_Ever-watching eyes._

Annoying? Yes.

But...also the kind of eyes that belong to people who really seem to care. It's baffling. After all he's done, again and again his family is willing to accept him back.

Jason flashes back to a few hours ago, to the man who thought he was doing to die cold and alone, far above the city.

If there’s a possibility to fix what happened between Bruce and him, however insubstantial, it has to be him to take the first step. It’s a ridiculous notion that he could ever get things back to how they used to be but perhaps it isn’t too late for a small dose of reconciliation.

On the metal tray on Bruce’s right is a glass of liquid that Jason easily identifies as whiskey. It’s still full and untouched based on the lack of multiple fingerprints that should litter it. Still, Bruce and alcohol is not a common sight. He never drinks - as a vigilante he insists on being prepared at all times. The only times Jason ever saw alcohol in his hands was at socialite parties when the man would need to keep up his insufferable “Brucie Wayne” reputation. (Every member of the family knew he handed off the glasses to Alfred or dumped them when no one was looking.)

_Why is he drinking now, of all times?_

In the older man’s hands, he clutches a wrinkled newspaper which displays a full page crossword puzzle.

Jason squints at the words, stifling a laugh as he watches Bruce’s posture change from one of relaxation to unmistakable irritation as he obviously mulls over one of the phrases.

“Sofia,” he offers after another few minutes. “The strong headed wife of Harpo is Sofia.”

Bruce lifts his head at the sound of his voice but doesn’t reply right away. With his pen, he scribbles in “Sofia” on number two down.

Jason wonders if Bruce knows how much he enjoys crosswords as well. Alfred used to save the newspapers for him, in his younger days as Robin, so he could solve them in his room. He kept them in a box under his bed where, wow, they probably still are. Bruce probably assumed he hoarded them for the comic section.

And _of course_ , Bruce does his crosswords with a pen too. Only people who make mistakes use pencils.

“Who are Sofia and Harpo?” Bruce asks, still scrutinizing the puzzle in front of him.

Jason shifts on the bed so that he can lean on one elbow and prop himself up at the same time. “They’re from  _The Color Purple_ , Bruce. They’re characters from something called a book.”

For a moment, Jason wonders if the ‘argument’ from earlier is too fresh for him to be attempting a joke. Another long silence halts the conversation and Jason’s mouth tastes dry.

“Is it a good book? I’ve never heard of it.” Bruce carefully lays the newspaper on his lap, still not turning to meet his son’s gaze.

Jason contemplates the question, rolling it around like clay in his head. This is his opening - Bruce admitted he  _didn’t_ know something. What he says now might be crucial.

“I like it a lot. It’s different because it isn’t exactly your conventional book but it highlights really well a correlation between violence and sex. In the end it shows the two are not synonymous and...that love is a powerful healing factor for all.”  _Now for the ambitious part_ , “If you want, I can lend you my copy. It’s on the shelf at my Port Adam’s residence.”

Finally,  _finally_ , Bruce turns to give him a half-smile. “I didn’t realize you were so well versed in literature, Jason. But, based on your description it seems like a novel I might enjoy.”

Jason notes the worry lines in Bruce’s face, the single gray strand of hair that peeks out from behind his right ear. It’s strange seeing him like this - Jason isn’t used to paying attention to anything except his own rage when he’s around him. Bruce is older now, tired, worn and beaten down.

“No dog-earing the pages,” he warns.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then, as if in a rush to get it out, his former guardian immediately follows up with: “I should have asked earlier...report on injuries?”

It’s a familiar line, one that Batman commonly asks his partners at the end of patrol. Both clinical and direct.

But Jason knows what he's attempting to do. Bruce Wayne,  _the Batman_ , is trying to ask if he’s okay.

It’s not a lot, but it’s a start.

Jason falls back against the sheets, gaze floating up to the ceiling. The light is no longer flickering.

Something warm stirs in his chest; small but hopeful. A minuscule smile tugs at his lips.

Maybe they can make this work.

 _"The world told me I was too much or not enough. But you made me feel just right.” —_ **Marie Jo Schwarz**

**Author's Note:**

> G, I am very sorry that I turned your prompt into an injury/angst fic, haha, but that's JayDick for you. I also apologize for (slightly) changing the original request - I really wanted to include everything but it wasn't quite flowing.
> 
> And thank you to to 3isme being a wonderful beta reader and faithfully covering some massive inconsistencies and plot holes! I could not have done this without you (: And, of course, the JayDick Discord for being an amazing and supportive community!


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